Dreamflight part II
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: Luna once again senses unrest in Quasimodo's dreams. A friendship story. It's magic.


Dreamflight, Part 2

Quasimodo stood wrapped in his blanket. It was late, compline had sounded long ago. A single candle burned in Notre Dame's north tower.

The mirror lay face-down on his table, clean and unused. He touched the polished silver that encased it. It was small, yet easily the most expensive item he owned. Gently, he pushed it toward the back of the table, away from his comb and razor. He had no use for such a thing. It only served as a reminder, a terrible reminder.

Winter had yet to release Paris from her icy grasp. A brisk, frosty wind blasted through the uppermost part of the bell-tower, causing the boards and beams to complain. Quasimodo hastily washed his face in cold water. He continued to pace through his quarters, combing the knots from his hair. He tossed the comb onto his table. His fingers hovered over the candle flame, ready to pinch the tower into darkness. He lifted his hand away.

The sparkle of the mirror caused him to hesitate. The mirror held no mystery. He watched as his own hand grasped its handle, lifting it.

Quasimodo looked into the mirror and sighed. Nothing had changed, nothing would ever change. He looked into his own uneven eyes, at the sparkle of candlelight trapped in their reflection. He smiled at his reflection, trying different positions for his cheeks and lips. Each smile was more twisted and frightening than the one before it. No smile he made could appear welcoming or warm. He returned the mirror to it's resting place. He snuffed the candle.

Quasimodo stood in the darkened bell-tower, embracing the cold silence surrounding him. He closed his eyes, imagining his own mirrored face. Others would run from him, whether he smiled or not. He squared his jaw. He placed his feet carefully, toes facing forward. He rolled his shoulders back and straightened his spine. He mimicked the soldiers that stood in the street, the soldiers that women adored. His blanket became the cloak of a hero.

Pain struck his knees and neck. Stubbornly, he held the position for a moment longer. He gritted his teeth before allowing his body to return to it's natural stance. He consciously felt each joint twist and bend him back into the monster he was.

Rather than return to his bed, Quasimodo climbed high into the south tower near the great bell. Big Marie shielded him from the cold air. He wrapped himself in his blanket and leaned against a beam. Forbidden thoughts flooded his mind. Forbidden, tempting and terrible thoughts. What if he were average? What if he was a normal, regular man?

Quasimodo imagined lifting the mirror. He imagined seeing a face with a strong jawline and two perfect rows of teeth. He would have brown hair, two blue eyes that saw equally well. His shoulders would be even, without a hump. He would be taller, his legs the same length. He imagined himself stepping out of Notre Dame, into the marketplace. He would hear his own voice and the voices of those greeting him.

He remained still, near big Marie.

"Let me fall asleep now." Quasimodo turned his face up, toward the darkness of the bell. His eyes remained closed. "Let this thought last just a while longer."

* * *

Quasimodo opened his eyes and looked into the darkness, into the shadow of Big Marie. She didn't care what he was. She'd robbed him of any chance of communicating with others.

"Quasimodo. Why are you here?"

Her voice was soft, soothing. Without turning, Quasimodo recognized her. He stood, smiling at the unicorn.

Princess Luna stepped forward, wrapping her left wing around his humped back. She rested her head on his left shoulder and pulled him toward her.

"You've grown, Quasimodo." Luna allowed her wing to brush against Quasimodo's cheek. "You've grown, yet you have not learned."

"I know. I am ungrateful." Quasimodo looked to the floor. "Master, he tells me this daily."

"This 'Master' you speak of is a poor teacher."

Luna stood tall, looking down at Quasimodo. He glanced up at her.

"Come, let us show you something."

Quasimodo followed Luna through the south tower, across the transept and into his quarters. She stopped at a wind-break, a wall of old cloth, pulled tight in the north tower. A blue cloud emerged from her horn, forming a ring on the cloth. The fabric burned away, leaving a mirror where sparkling ash fell away.

"Look at yourself, Quasimodo. See yourself as you wish to be."

With cautious steps, Quasimodo approached the mirror. He stood, looking at himself next to the majestic unicorn. He looked into his own eyes. He watched as his hunch disappeared. His body grew symmetrical, his face handsome. He passed his hands over his left eyebrow, feeling what he had all of his life. In the mirror, a smaller, normal hand passed over a smooth forehead and through chestnut hair.

His eyes closed.

"That is not me." Quasimodo sighed.

"No, it's not." Luna unfurled her wing. She guided him toward the mirror with her feathers. "Step through."

Quasimodo swallowed, his toe nearly touching the shimmering mirror.

"Go."

Quasimodo stepped forward, through the fabric.

The belltower was moonlit, it was early morning. He stood in an empty bell-tower, his blanket wrapped loosely around him. He looked up, his vision surprisingly clear in the early light. Birds flutterd about in the tower, scattering dust onto him. He listened to the flapping and smiled.

He paused for a moment, listening to Paris. If he was hearing the birds, perhaps the rest of him had changed as well.

Quasimodo felt his hands. They were smaller and softer. His wrists were well-defined, his palms lacking calluses and scars. He passed his hands over his face, a symmetrical and smooth face. His nose was small. He breathed deeply through his nose, feeling the air flow smoothly into his chest. He ran his tongue over perfect teeth.

A rush of happiness moved through him as he stood tall. The blanket fell off his shoulders, crumpling on the floor. Even in the dim morning light, he could see that he appeared perfectly average. His heart fluttered.

He walked through his tower. It was barren, aside from the bells. The beams and walls were naked of carvings. His table, and his model of Paris, were missing. There was no bed, no shelves of pots, books, ink or paint. No bread lay in the basket, as there was neither basket nor table.

He walked to the transept. Notre Dame was the same as always, save shortage of chimeras. He looked down, the city appeared far away and nearly swirling. He covered his left eye for a moment and looked down again. The movement stopped. He covered his right eye, noting the same change. He shrugged and looked down, taking in the full, dizzying effect of Notre Dame's height.

The square below him was nearly empty. Shuttered merchant wagons replaced the many Roma caravans there the previous day. Only a few souls walked through the twilight square.

Quasimodo watched as the stars began to fade from the winter sky. It was time for him to awake Paris and send the clergy to prayer, to ring prime.

Quasimodo ran up the ladder to the belfry, to the many ropes that would announce a new day. He leapt at the rope, grasping it in his hands. He pulled down, setting the bell in motion, before leaping to the next rope.

The rope passed through Quasimodo's hands. He slipped from the rope and glided to the floor. He looked up, into the swinging, silent bell.

His hands stung, as if scalded. He looked to his reddened palms and back to the bells. He forced his hands into fists, ignoring the sting. Once more, he grasped the rope and pulled down. After several tries, the bell sounded. His ears ached and echoed at the note.

Unfazed, he ran to the next rope, then the next. The pealing was delayed, the timing off. Quasimodo stood below his bells, trembling on weakened legs and short of breath. He panted, his body filled with an unfamiliar burning.

He looked to his arms, to his bleeding hands. Moving his fingers, he felt his damaged skin. The lauds were only a short time away, sunrise was rapidly approching. He walked through the tower, in search of something to protect his bleeding hands. Oil-soaked rags lay in a bucket, polish for the bells.

The floor remained as it always was - firm and uneven. He sat on the floor and tore the rags into strips,wrapping his hands in what appeared crude gloves. It hurt, yet provided some cushion. He rested on the wooden floor, studying his arms and legs. He felt for parts of him that had simply vanished, such as his hunch. He found other parts that has suddenly became more prominant, such as his collarbone and neck.

The sun was near rising, Paris was waking up. Quasimodo pushed himself from the floor and returned to the transept. Citizens trickled into the cathedral. Smoke began to rise from the bakery, the ovens were warming for the days bread. Merchants opened their stalls and shops.

"I will attend mass." Quasimodo told himself. He startled at the sound of his own voice. Placing his hand on his neck, he spoke again. With every word, his Adam's apple moved. It's vibration moved through his fingers.

Quasimodo rested his tired arms on the parapet, planning his route in the marketplace. He watched the people move about. Mounted soldiers dotted the streets. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds that carried up from the streets. Muffled conversations, wagon wheels clambering over cobbles and other church bells filled the cold morning air. It was music. Quasimodo opened his eyes. There was no music.

Distant memories of strumming lutes, drum beats and other instuments filled his mind. Faint, sweet sounds that carried from the square. Memories of minstrels and poets shouting from street corners and stages. Sounds that he remembered hearing as a child. Quasimodo scanned the square, the view he'd taken in each day, looking for a performer. No Romani dotted the streets. No performers offered their arts to the masses. He remained still, watching Paris come alive. Bougeouis crossed the streets, as did carriages and citizens. Where was the dancer with her goat? Where was the Romani blacksmith? Where was the storyteller?

Rather than watch the streets, Quasimodo walked through the south tower. He climbed the stairs and ladders to reach her. Nearly out of breath, he found Big Marie resting patiently. Freckles of tarnish stained her latin insciptions. He frowned, stroking the bell.

"Do you know me?" His voice cracked.

From the north tower, the lauds sounded. Quasimodo looked outside. The sun had yet to breach the eastern hill. Quasimodo sat under Big Marie.

"There is another bell-ringer, then." He petted her clapper, then laughed to himself. "He must think that your sisters rang themselves."

The tolling was correct, the timing acceptable. He felt a pang in his stomach and his eyes growing moist. He unwrapped his hands, using the oil to wipe the tarnish from Big Marie.

"He doesn't take very good care of you. Is he spiteful that you deafened him? It's not your fault."

Quasimodo rubbed at the spots. His hands ached. The rags turned to strings. With sore fingers and strings in his hands, he clenched the shredded cloth in his left palm.

"I still love you, even if you're not mine." He embraced Big Marie, allowing the coldness of her bronze to enter him. He stroked the bell with his right hand.

Notre Dame would have a crowd. Quasimodo looked down into the square once more. People were certainly moving about, despite the cold weather. He watched them enter Notre Dame, through the great doors. He examined the sculptures, enjoying the dizzying effect of height.

He would enter Notre Dame through the portal of St. Etienne.

Quasimodo lifted himself over the parapet, grasping the sculpture for balance. His hands gripped the statues as they did every day. He began to climb down.

His feet began to slide on the wall, his toes failing to conform to the rough stone. In horror, he felt his hands slipping away from the sculptures.

Summoning all of his strength, he pulled himself close to the wall. His shoulders ached, his hands spasmed. He felt his feet sliding downward.

He gritted his teeth, nearly biting his tongue. He strained his shoulders, struggling to lift himself closer to the parapet, a distance of less than few handbreadths. His limbs failed to obey him, theree was no strength left in them. Without warning, his hands lost grip. He fell.

Quasimodo felt himself tumbling in all directions, his leg striking a sculpture as he plummeted toward the gardens.

A flash of deep blue appeared below him. He was floating.

Luna snatched him from the air. She drifted a while, her wings carrying both of them to a secluded area under a bridge.

"Quasimodo, you could have died." Luna hissed.

"This is a dream." Quasimodo paused at Lunas worried face. He looked to his bleeding hands, to his bruised, throbbing leg. "It is a dream. Is... isn't it?"

"Not exactly." Luna looked at Quasimodo's bleeding leg. "What were you thinking?"

"I always climb the cathedral walls. Every day..." Quasimodo shrugged, before his words trailed off. He lifted his smaller arms, feeling the lightness of his frame. He felt the exhaustion in every part of his body. His eyes grew wide for a moment. "This is not 'me' though, is it?"

Luna shook her head. She lowered her wing, pulling Quasimodo closer to her side.

"Quasimodo. Are you not happy?" Luna stepped beside him. "Are you not handsome? Is this not what you wanted?"

"I... " Quasimodo looked at his hands, at his perfect feet and legs. "It... I am. I thought it was. But... This isn't right. This is not me."

"Only your outside has changed. Nothing more. You are who you've always been."

Quasimodo looked up at the unicorn's curious expression.

"Am I? I don't think can live like this." He gestured to his straight legs, sculpted chest and handsome face. His voice trembled.

"You remain uncertain."

"This place, it's unfamiliar. This is not the Paris I know."

"Come, it appears that you will miss this 'mass' that you desire. Is there another?"

"When the bells ring again." Quasimodo nodded.

"Very well." Luna raised her wings.

"Wait." Quasimodo held out his hand. "Stay with me?"

Luna nodded. She raised her horn, disappearing into a faint shimmering cloud.

The square was filling. People he'd never seen walked past him, bumping into him. He felt a hand linger on his backside, followed by a firm squeeze. A blushing lady, dressed in shimmering blue fabric giggled at him, then disappeared into the crowd. Another lady followed her, apologizing to him.

Quasimodo stood, at a loss for words.

"These creatures are most unusual." Luna muttered.

"The smell, it's..."

"Terrible." Luna stated.

"...it's strong. It's different." Quasimodo looked around him, at the crowd of people.

The marketplace was busy. Citizens lined up at the bakery and patisserie. Smoke billowed from the blacksmith's forge. Horses whinnied, roosters crowed. The smell of baking bread hovered on the frosty breeze. Women walked by with filled baskets, excusing themselves as he passed through the crowd.

"It's wonderful." Quasimodo continued to walk farther from Notre Dame, embracing his surroundings.

Clanging metal caused Quasimodo to stop. A familiar shape emerged from the crowd - his master's carriage drawn by two horses. Ducking around a corner, he watched the carriage stop in the square. Claude Frollo emerged, the citizens parting as he passed through them and into Notre Dame.

Quasimodo pulled himself behind the wall, his face growing pale. His stomach churned, causing him to swallow bitter acid. His shoulders trembled, hunching forward. At once he felt hot and cold. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He retreated closer to the wall. Leaning against the stones, he felt himself slide to the ground. He struggled to breathe, feeling as if someone were choking him. With every heartbeat, he felt as if his heart would jump out of his chest, the throbbing echoing in his ears. He trembled, his head near his knees. He remained perfectly still, his face covered by his knees and hands.

Feathers brushed against his shoulder. His breathing became deeper. Blurry-eyed, he looked into the street. No one looked at him. Master was gone.

Cautiously, Quasimodo stood. Immediately, he felt light-headed and weak. He rested his hand against the wall for a moment, his skin growing cold. He peered around the corner, the carriage remained in the square. He brushed the sweat from his head and arms.

After looking behind him a few times, Quasimodo walked away from the square and Notre Dame.

He wandered through the narrow streets, reaching a bridge. Another square opened up. Standing at it's edge, he looked on at another gathering. Citizens flocked around a stage of some sort. Amid the gathering of people, flashes of armour sparkled in the early sunlight. Words boomed across the square.

"For the crimes of witchcraft and corrupting the citizens of Paris, under the laws of his Majesty, King Louis XI and the City of Paris, these heathens are hereby sentenced to death by hanging."

Curious, Quasimodo crossed the square toward the stage. Nooses hung from beams. Soldiers forced people onto the platform, shoving their necks through the nooses. The crowd cheered, throwing stones and rubbish at the prisoners. Their voices carried over the city.

"Sorcerer!"

"Gypsy scum."

"Jezebel!"

"Whore."

"Monster!"

He stood frozen, his eyes fixing on those on the stage.

He could see their eyes, their fear.

"This is a play, a performance..." Quasimodo thought, shaking his head.

Four souls stood on the stage. A blonde woman in white rags stood next to a red-haired man and a man with a deformed leg. One he recognized, the only Romani, looked to him. He was dreadfully thin, he nose oversized. This was the storyteller. One of the soldiers drummed.

The doomed man looked beyond Quasimodo.

"A unicorn?" The storyteller's lips moved, his eyes widened.

The word was silent, Quasimodo clearly saw it.

A cracking whip sounded, followed by hoof-beats. The stage fell way, leaving four trembling bodies on ropes.

The crowd cheered. The drumbeat stopped. Those hanged continued to kick, their bare feet moving in all directions.

Quasimodo turned away, his hand covering his mouth. His stomach churned. He looked to the ground, to the snowy cobbles, and began to walk away.

"It must me nice to have the world handed to you." A gravelly voice called from the stocks. Quasimodo turned to see an old, thin man. His hair was frosted, his hands limp.

"You heard me." The man coughed. "A strapping young may like you, you don't know what suffering is. A curse on you."

Others remained next to him, their hands and heads hanging down in despair. Quasimodo turned, only to see a pillory with a bloodied man tied to it. Spoiled food clung to him. The man was tied with ropes, forced to his knees.

Backing away, Quasimodo soon found himself on the bridge, looking down at the Seine. Luna approached his side.

"What was that terrible place?"

"Place de Grève." Quasimodo mumbled. "I could see it from my tower, yet could never have imagined..."

Luna remained next to Quasimodo, cloaked in light. Quasimodo remained on the bridge, looking down into the water. He arms rested on the edge. He watched as the dim winter sun appeared as sparkles on the water.

"Mass will begin soon." Quasimodo pushed himself from the bridge.

They continued to walk through the streets, around the square and through the portal of St. Etienne. The none bells sounded.

Notre Dame was nearly empty, with few parishioners and clergy scattered about. Monks and novices swept the marble floor and replaced candles. Quasimodo scanned the nave. Seeing that no one looked his way, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Luna walked with him. He began to hunch over as he approached the pews. He looked to the stained glass windows, to the great rose window. At the edge of the nave, in the last bit of shadow, Quasimodo stopped walking.

"Why do you hesitate?"

"I don't know." Quasimodo looked to his perfect hands.

"Did we not fulfill your desire?" Luna stepped to face him.

Quasimodo's jaw relaxed, then trembled slightly. Nervously, he looked to the columns, the frescoes and stained glass that surrounded him. He looked to the pews, the citizens that dotted the cathedral. He crossed his arms over his chest, grasping his even, perfect shoulders. He shivered.

"Quasimodo, why do you hesitate? What is there to fear?"

"I... I don't know."

Luna nodded, a faint smile appearing.

"I want to go home."

"Very well." Luna turned, walking toward the bell-tower. "We will return you to your own world."

"You... this... it is a dream." Quasimodo sighed.

"We are the Princess of the night." Luna walked with Quasimodo up the tower steps. "We are of a different world, yet as real as the moon. This place is, as well."

"Where are we, if not in a dream?" They continued to climb.

"In a world where you never grew up." Luna sighed.

In silence, they climbed the remaining steps into the north tower. They stood in the empty space under the bells.

A spark lifted from Luna's horn, revealing a floating disc of shimmering, reflective light.

Quasimodo looked into the mirror. In it, he saw himself as he had always been - one-eyed, hunchbacked and lame. Deaf, deformed and ugly. With the red hair and green eyes of a sorcerer.

"No dream may create what one has never experienced. Alicorn magic is unable to create such a place." Luna looked into the mirror. "Our magic may change your appearance, it may open a door."

"What happened?" Quasimodo mumbled. "What happened to me?"

"You were drowned."

Quasimodo continued to stare at himself, every part of his regular self. Luna's magic lowered his blanket onto his shoulders. Grasping it's edges, he pulled it tightly around his body.

"If this is not a dream, the parishioners should have seen you."

"No pure soul was in that room, save yours." Luna stated flatly.

"Then why would you bring me here, like this?" Quasimodo sighed. "Looking like this, rather than... than that." He gestured to the figure in the mirror.

"We wanted you to see that you were already exactly as you should be." Luna nodded to the mirrored image, while looking into Quasimodo's eyes.

"Like this, without the bells and without Notre Dame, I feel weak. I'm nearly made of glass." He looked at his damaged hands. Blood soaked through his hose, his leg throbbing.

"You could stay here and build a new life for yourself, from nothing. In time, you would grow to accept this reality and this body. Quasimodo the bell-ringer would disappear."

"This Paris is not the Paris I know. It's unfamiliar. It's more cruel that my Master told me, more cruel than I ever imagined. Here, I'd be no one." Quasimodo smiled for a brief moment, then sighed. "I am no one."

Luna placed her hoof between Quasimodo and the mirror.

"You have a place. Your being who you are, where you are, will make a difference. It already has."

"A place inside Notre Dame, in sanctuary. Where I may never go outside." Quasimodo choked. "Where I study, read and learn so many things, yet never experience the world as I see it."

"Waiting is never easy." Luna pulled her hoof back. "I understand wanting more."

"Why is this place so different?" Quasimodo asked, his eyes narrowed.

"You already know. You must accept it."

"I can't believe I'm doing this." Quasimodo pulled both of his hands hands into fists and stepped through the mirror. Luna followed him.

He turned, looking into the mirror. His own reflection looked back at him. Luna's magic crumbled the portal into ashes. Quasimodo remained, staring into a large hole. The December wind blasted through, sending a chill through him.

"What will you do, Quasimodo?"

"I don't know." He looked to his hands, which were again large and covered with thick calluses. "I will ring the bells, of course. Then there are my lessons. I don't know. I want more than this, but how?"

They climbed the steps within the north tower, emerging on the roof.

"Listen to your heart, over what others say." Luna wrapped him in her wings. "Accept yourself."

"Who could ever accept this?"

"We do." Luna looked into his eyes, offering a sad smile. "You must accept yourself before others of your kind will, before you earn what you desire. Before you find where you truly belong."

Quasimodo remained still, his mind racing. Luna pulled Quasimodo close to her with her foreleg, embracing him.

"We may not be able to visit you again. My sister would send us back to the moon if she knew what we've done."

Luna stood at the edge of the roof. She raised wings, allowing the wind to lift her feathers. Quasimodo stood on the edge with her. Luna turned to him.

"Promise us that you will find your worth."

Luna lowered her wings, raising herself into the air. She stepped from the edge of the roof, allowing the breeze to carry her upward, toward the moon and away from Notre Dame.

Quasimodo stood on the edge of the roof, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair. It was cold, yet refreshing. Once certain that the unicorn had disappeared, he returned to his quarters.

* * *

Quasimodo awoke in his own bed, wrapped in his blanket. His breathes told him all he needed to know, he was his regular self. His own sort of normal.

His leg throbbed. Reaching under his cover, he rubbed his calf. Dried blood coated his fingertips. He lifted his blanket to reveal a large bruise on his leg where the statue had struck him. A wave of chill moved through him, leaving his skin as gooseflesh.

The bell-tower was familiar. His model city remained where he'd left it. His books, papers and quills rested neatly in their proper places. The windbreak, a wall of fabric guarding his table from the north wind, was charred. A large hole had burned through the centre. He looked through the hole, it was large enough for him to pass through. Through it he caught the glimmer of dust and sunlight. He raised his hand, holding it before the opening. He pulled back.

That world was best forgotten.

He looked down. Ash littered the floor. His own footprints were smeared by the unicorns hooves. He shook the cloth, sending a rainbow of ashes to the floor.

Hesitantly, Quasimodo swept away the ashes. Hoof-prints remained stubbornly scuffed into the wood.

He dumped the ashes onto his wood shavings, shaking the bucket so they disappeared. Should Master see the burned fabric, he'd surely be blamed for carelessness in causing a fire. Gingerly, he untied the drape, folding away the opening. He formed it into a padding under his straw mattress, where it disappeared.

Distracted, Quasimodo sounded prime, washed himself, dressed his leg and completed his lesson. He began carving a horse for his model city, his rough fingers forming a long, flowing mane into the wood.

"Why did she drown me?" Quasimodo thought. He nicked wood from the horses' mane, forming a series of stars. He fought back tears, unwilling to accept that what Master had told him could be true, that he could have been drowned. His life could have been over before it began.

Quasimodo continued to carve the horse, the knife gliding over the wood as he moved it through his fingers. What his Master told him was true, he was lucky to be alive. He clutched the horse in his palms, imagining the beauty of the unicorn. Even if he never saw her again, he would remember her.

Setting the unfinished horse on his work table, Quasimodo climbed the tower. He looked out onto the streets, into the square. The marketplace was as he remembered it, it was familiar. He found himself smiling when seeing the storyteller, in his flamboyant hat, stepping into his brightly-coloured wagons. All was as it should be.

A lump formed in Quasimodo's throat. This was the Paris that he knew and loved. It was not as it should be, it was as it had always been. Somehow, someway, he needed to be out of the bell-tower. His confinement needed to end. Just how, or when, he needed it to happen.

Quasimodo buried his face in his hands. He shook his head, tangling his hair.

"What am I thinking?" He mumbled into his hands, before returning to the belfry to sound the matins.


End file.
